Our Vices
by Mardeski
Summary: Sherlock discovers John is a serial killer... And decides he wants to watch the doctor's methods... - Sherlock POV. Johnlock in later chapters... Dark!John and Dark!Sherlock...
1. Chapter 1

Tonight is a Danger Night.

Mycroft had coined the ominous term many years ago, when I was barely pulling myself from the gutters and wastelands of cocaine binging. I had my vice, I was obscenely self aware of my situation, of my Danger Nights.

Not all nights, and more often than not (ironically enough) they occurred during the day. When the sun filtered through the blinds and dust particles danced in the beams and I couldn't _think_ with all the bloody racket of existence just outside my walls. People, sirens, birds and chatter. A cacophony of nightmares when one tries to focus on The Work.

One cannot simply _think_.

Cocaine was my vice. Stimulating the brain in the same way real accomplishment does, giving one a feeling of euphoria. Self-confidence, vitality and focus -all one hit away. The definition of a "high" for one like me, bent on creating limitless energy for ones transport. No need to slow, to sleep, to eat—only focus.

Only The Work.

But drugs are fickle, you see. After so long they become wildly inconsistent, despite my best efforts of experimentations on the proper dosage and conditions to ensure a dependable, steady high. I began to feel fatigue, true fatigue that goes deeper into the soul than just ones transport. Paranoia was rampant and unimpeded, followed by flashes of nausea and dreadful migraines, which held enough power to nearly incapacitate.

I was barred from crime scenes, barred from Bart's Hospital, barred from lab equipment and my own personal funds, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes.

"Danger Nights, dear brother, need to cease."

So I did. I ceased my vice, my only source of comfort and escape from the world outside. The world that doesn't understand. That is slow and demanding and infuriatingly stupid. Forever run by idiots and the undeserving.

I cleared my mind and body of drugs and chemicals, only indulging in Nicotine patches as a stimulate outside of coffee or tea. I experienced, overtime, the kind of single minded focus I had craved while on my highs, through tremendous personal effort. My own personal accomplishment. Mine, my own. I would be hard pressed to go back to where I was.

So when I say tonight is a Danger Night, you need not think of it being mine.

* * *

It started with a disappearance. Or a kidnapping, if you were to believe the hysterical spouse.

A wealthy man, missing less than 24 hours. His wife being the (posh) sister of a (posh) higher up at the Yard, Lestrade and his team were under immense pressure to find him or a cause for the disappearance.

The house was obscene in its opulence and as John and I entered I swept through the living spaces on the main floor, as John took up speaking quietly with the Detective Inspector.

The wife was on the loveseat, ankles polietly crossed (posh indeed), tissue box on her lap. (Messy mascara, hiccupping breaths, shaking fingers). Distress obvious. I do not approach, for she knows nothing.

Ornately framed photos dressed the hallways and surfaces of the living area. The couple on a white beach (Bahamas), laughing on a bridge (New York City), holding hands at dinner (Anniversary).

I came upon a single photo, placed high on the mantelpiece of just the husband.

Bright, overpowering canary yellow tie against a sharply tailored gray suit. He smiled (without teeth) eyes focused past the camera, looking at the one who took the photo (wife).

John approached, hands clasped tightly behind his back, parade rest. "Well?" He had asked, as his eyes followed my gaze to the photo.

I brought my focus down, staring hard at the fireplace. "I believe we have a kidnapping." I stated.

He wasn't surprised, but he attempted to sound it. "Oh? I was speaking to Lestrade, there's no note—at least not yet. He was off work at 5:15, went to a pub straight after, banking receipt showed 6:14 pm he paid his tab and left. Bartender says alone. Says he actually hadn't spoken to anyone while he was there."

"No CCTV footage from around the area?"

John hesitated, and my eyes narrowed in on him. "No, no footage." He said (quickly).

"What do _you_ think?"

John shrugged, smiling (gently) and giving a sigh. "I dunno Sherlock. No ransom note, like I said. Maybe had a second wife, another lover—went off with her? Avoided the cameras because he didn't want us to follow him."

Interesting. Wrong. Lestrade approached, mouth open to begin a sentence, but I cut him off. "How much was his bill?"

Lestrade looked down at his flip notebook. "Eh, receipt showed- £58."

I folded my arms. "Quite lot of alcohol then, for one man over the course of one hour. Don't see him ducking and weaving around CCTV cameras, do you?"

John gave a helpless shrug and looked away at the window. Lestrade scratched his chin and stared at the floor.

Idiots. All of them.

I took a step forward at Lestrade, catching his attention as he looked up.

"You won't find him alive."

I deleted the memory of the wife beginning to suddenly wail on the couch.

* * *

I was only half incorrect. They never found him. Weeks passed, and nothing new turned up. It hit the news within hours, but was over within days. They latched onto John's first theory that perhaps he had absconded with a mistress off to the Caribbean or some exotic place. How pedestrian, and how wrong.

Hardly anything bothered me more than the unsolved ones.

It was four weeks after, when I noticed the tie in John's room.

One single tie. Bright, canary yellow. Much too long to look fitting on his shorter frame.

A trophy.

It hit me with such brilliant clarity I could have sat for hours marveling at the sensation of absolute lucidity.

And when John had returned from Tesco, taking the plastic bag and steps (two at a time) up to his room, I sat calmly in my chair, the canary silk tie folded carefully and tucked into my palm.

I waited.

10 beats, maybe 15. For once, I had difficulty tracking as my body was vibrating with adrenaline. He descended the stairs (two at a time) and stalked into the living room.

His (upper) body is tense, locked solid with barely held restraint. His bright blue eyes are shuttered, dangerous. His lips are a (thin) line. Clenched fists.

"You were in my room." It's not a question.

"Yes."

"Give it back."

Ah. Straight to it then. I rub the silk material with my thumb, which catches his eye, and they widen just a fraction, zeroing in on my hand.

And I wonder then, what kind of killer my kind, gentle doctor was_._

_I was a solider Sherlock, I've killed people. I had bad days._

Would he lunge? Would he turn on me? Would he bolt and try for escape?

Would he cry? Sink to his knees, beg mercy and forgiveness?

I haven't felt this truly reckless in years as I don't have the answer.

I can _feel _his mind working, feel it flexing and flickering just behind his darkened eyes. He studies me, and his eyes aren't his own. Expressions I've never encountered on his face before. Calculating, scrutinizing, weighing options.

I stand and approach with two steps, swooping toward him with practiced agility. He doesn't blink, doesn't twitch. Only his eyes follow mine.

"Tell me how you did it."

Not _why_ you did it. But _how_. He blinks at that, nearly flinches but restrains himself. He studies my face, and I let him. Let him take his time, let him come to his own decision about me.

"Give it back and I will."

Interesting. He could fight for it, wrestle and attack and pry it out of my hand as he attacks me to the ground. But he waits, rather (im)patiently, as I press my lowered hand against his, gently transferring the tie over to him.

His fingers curl around it, and as I pull my hand away, his eyes flutter briefly at the contact of his trophy now in his palm and I understand. I understand this is his _hit_, his high. I want to tell him, grab him, shake him. _I understand John._

I do none of these things. I take a step back. He squeezes the tie in his palm twice, before lifting it a few inches to tuck it inside his jean's front pocket. He smoothes it down with his fist. His eyes are dim and glazed.

Seconds pass between us and I don't speak, I let him have his high. In those seconds I know John. I _know_ him completely and yet I don't know _enough_. This isn't his first, oh no. Not his first murder. Not self defense, not kills-but murder. Entirely practiced and efficient.

Serial killers keep trophies John, how many trophies do you have? Do you keep them in a box all together? Or are they scattered around this flat, innocuous little objects and I have no idea? Oh God, tell me I must know.

"You have questions." The spell is broken, his eyes are hard again, his (whole) body is rigid and guarded.

I sit back in my chair, relaxed, and steeple my fingers under my chin. I give a quick motion to his directly across from mine, and he seats himself without complaint. He does not relax.

"I want to know how you did it." I repeat.

"My methods?"

Beautiful term, and I smile genuinely. His eyes narrow, suspicious. "Yes, your methods John."

"Scalpel."

Ah, Doctor, of course. Predictable and personal. I nod. "And the victims?"

I use plural. He doesn't balk. "What of them." His voice is steel (low, detached).

This is where my mind begins to really race. It exhilarates me. The mind of a serial killer—not just any killer, _John_. My flatmate. My colleague. My friend. My John.

I need to know, need to consume his mind, his thoughts, his impulses and rationales.

I want to peel it all apart like pieces of cooked pasta (warm and sticky and deliciously messy) and piece it together again, make a feast of it fit only for us.

I'm treading dangerously, and my heart is racing nearly as fast as my mind. John hasn't made up his mind on me yet, hasn't decided if I am still a friend or now a foe at this point. He's still calculating, his body is unnervingly calm.

I need data. More data on his state of mind.

I continue.

"Did they deserve it?" I ask, keeping my voice as detached as his.

He frowns. A genuine furrow in his brow of not understanding. "What does that matter?"

Ah, more data. He might be a true psychopath, not just a bored Doctor having some off side fun. "How do you pick them?"

His frown deepens and he tilts his head at me, getting frustrated. I don't want that. I rephrase. "The tie. Out of everyone at the pub, why did you choose him?"

He pulls back, considering it for a moment. "Because he was there."

I study him for a few beats, before I nod once. "It's really that simple for you isn't it." I say. I don't tone it as a question.

He says nothing to that. He merely turns his head and studies the yellow smiley on the wall. His eyes dart to the stairs, down towards the front door. His thumb rubs his front pocket.

I have more questions, so many, rampant in my mind. How many victims? What do you do with the bodies? Where do you do it? What is your process? Is it quick or do you let them suffer? Do you taunt them? Do you molest them?

And I decided then, I don't need to ask all those questions. I only need to ask one to answer them all.

"Would you let me watch?"

His head whips sharply, but his eyes don't widen. Only his pupils betray his surprise.

"Watch?" It's a breath of air.

I nod. "Yes."

He frowns again, and he turns toward the front door. He faces me again, drumming his fingers once against the armrest. "Lestrade isn't about to come through that door. Is he." He makes it sound more of a realization, than a question.

I incline my head, studying him. Ah. I see now. "You thought I'd already called someone. Before you came home."

"Of course I did." He bites, frustrated.

"So you've been sitting here, patiently waiting for a crew of officers to come bursting through our front door to arrest you, is that it?"

He nods, body still tense.

"I didn't call anyone John. You can relax."

He doesn't. His jaw clenches. "And why not? Isn't that what we do? Catch criminals?"

I lean forward. "Is that what you wish I'd done? Because you must be truly mad if you think I'd let them have you."

His eyes bore into mine, a twisted showdown of 'don't blink'. It lasts only seconds, and I see his decision made. He relaxes into the chair. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tie. He curls his fingers around it and pulls, letting the silk slide between his middle and forefinger. He repeats this several times. I watch, transfixed.

He stops and nods once. "You want to watch." He says, almost to himself.

"Yes."

"Would you stop me?"

"No."

"Even when they scream?"

"Even when they scream."

He nods once. "Alright then."

And so our Work began.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Text

John didn't approach me for 38 days.

During those days, our lives resumed our normal routine. So normal and so domestic in fact, I began to doubt that the previous insidious conversation could have actually taken place.

The cases we were offered were not ones of murder or kidnapping. We were offered two. Forgery and embezzlement. 'White collar' I believe is the term. Clean, straight forward and decidedly not at all dangerous.

I wondered idly if it was this now lackluster routine that would cause John to create his own danger.

But John, as he did, surprised me.

He continued to work part time at the clinic and stayed in most nights. The evenings where he went out were short lived and later corroborated by conversations by those he said he was going out with. Lestrade would bring up a game of darts they had. Mike Stamford would speak of a sudden pub brawl that they observed together while having a pint.

Even an evening John stayed out later than usual, and I had even thought, _this is it!_ had Molly thanking him the next day for staying up so late helping move new furniture into her flat.

_Dull._

John's easy half smile and chuckled laugh put everyone at ease. He was unassuming and steady spoken. He looked soft, with woolly jumpers and faded jeans. People saw this as gentle.

Safe.

I saw a predator camouflaging to his surroundings. A perfect mimic.

I would know. Mimicry can be survival when one is ostracized. Facial expressions, body language, tone of speech… A tilt of the head, choke out a tear, crack your voice and people fall over themselves with sympathy. They open up, let down their guard and the opportunity to strike occurs.

I implemented it as a weapon to be deployed sparingly.

John had created a lifestyle.

Such a perfect imitation that even I had been fooled.

It must be exhausting. I wondered when he would slip.

* * *

On the 37th day, I saw the slip.

Perhaps 'saw' is not the correct term. I 'heard' it and what I heard-was nothing.

John wasn't a quiet person. He clinked mugs, wobbled the banister, ran up stairs with heavy boots and slammed doors and windows. He would toss books onto tables and close his laptop with such a snap at times I wondered when he would finally shatter the screen.

But on the 37th day, the flat was eerily silent.

The kettle sat unused and the telly was shut off. John was in his room, and where I could usually here his weight shift along the floorboards or the creak of his bed, I heard- nothing.

Hours passed. The sun shifted in the sky and began to hide behind a wall of clouds that began to form, heavy with dark rain. It was a Tuesday. John worked the clinic Monday through Wednesday. I had a momentary contemplation that he was ill. That maybe it was flatmate or perhaps societal obligation to check on him and as I stood in the kitchen I palmed my mobile in my hand, checking the time and considering.

"Sherlock."

I turned towards the voice, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Keeping my face neutral I turned towards John. John, who had just startled me as I had not felt a shift of air or sound on the stairs and I knew keeping myself dispassionate, almost bored, was a survival technique.

No surprise. No weakness.

You can't let a shark scent blood in the water.

I pocketed my phone and gave a dismissive, bored sniff. "John."

He's dressed to go out. Black jacket over navy and white patterned button up, dark jeans and brown, tightly laced up boots. His expression is serious, the lines of his face are as smooth as a blank slate. His hair slightly swept to the side, lighter gray ends fraying up. He's boyish yet battle-worn and I have to concede that it's a horrible type of beauty. His eyes are unnaturally black and sharp, stricken with focus.

He gives me a single curt nod and I wordlessly cock an eyebrow.

_Tonight?_

And then he's down the stairs, the front door sweeping open and clicking shut with a brush of cold air.

* * *

I had a detailed vision of how this would go but I blame John for the fleeting spike of astonishment I experience at being entirely wrong. I do hate when I am incorrect, although the brief feeling of imbalance and disquiet can addicting in its own way. Decidedly reckless and puzzling. Better than any injectable substance.

Walking a few blocks behind him, the mere fact he hasn't caught a cab alerts me to the fact that his hunting grounds tonight are close to home, and I feel oddly disappointed.

I had snatched a gray, layered sweatshirt from the rack, disregarding my usual coat and scarf for something less recognizable, and glance upwards to the clouds that are pregnant with rain.

As if on cue, the sky is opens and begins to slowly drizzle. That chilly, misty rain that clings to your clothing like fine dew, slowly soaking. The sounds of my shoes scuffing against the pavement with each wet pace echo between each pass of a vehicle.

I feel a hollow yet exhilarating chill when I realize I can't hear John's steps at all.

His hands are in his pockets; head slightly bowed as the rain damps his hair, drops rolling off at the tips. And as I watch him duck into a billiard pub, knowing I will follow, I wonder if I've lost all perspective.

I pace myself. Slow my stride so I enter casually a few minutes behind him. He's already seated next to a man that is drinking a pint along with bag of crisps. John already has a full pint of amber, but his eyes are fixed down on his phone.

The pub is fairly busy given the weekday, and the demographic is varied.

A few twenty year olds, all hoodies and headphones, laugh around the billiards table.

A blonde with badly smudged mascara, glued to her iPhone, hovers against a brunette who is trying to shamelessly flirt with the barkeep.

An older group of men, retired, crowd the dartboard, and it's easy to notice they aren't even keeping score.

I sit opposite John, across the length of the squared bar, and motion my chin up at the bartender, catching his eye. He approaches, obviously annoyed to be away from the heavy flirting.

"Yeah, mate? What're thirsty for?"

I place my palms on the mahogany and give an exaggerated sigh. "Oi, mate. Gimmie your local lager." I say with a tilt of Irish accent.

He nods and heads for tap and I risk a casual glance over to John, who is still looking down at his mobile. His pint is half finished. I hadn't seen him take a drop.

My phone buzzes in a quick staccato of vibration.

A thrill runs up my spine. As the bartender hands me the perspiring glass I nod in thanks and place it down, before fishing my phone out.

The text is two small words but huge with implications.

_'Which one?'_

Which one? I keep the phone low in lap and I don't dare risk a glance. I can feel his eyes on me. He's waiting.

What is he asking? Which one would _I _choose? Which one should _he_ choose? Which one he-Oh. Of course.

My hands are steady as a type my reply.

_'Why ask me? You've already chosen. SH.'_

Staccato. _'Who.'_

I feel a twitch of a smile on my lips as I reply._ 'Blonde. SH.'_

Staccato._ 'Wrong. Try again?'_

Wrong ? Try again? My eyebrows knit together. I run through my Rolodex of patrons. I imperceptibly shake my head, but with his eyes trained on me I know he's caught it.

I glance up and palm the glass and take mouthful, bitter but crisp, to not arouse suspicion. I catch John's focus and his eyes are narrowed, head slightly cocked to the right. He's waiting again.

But he's wrong. Doesn't he see that? It's obvious. I take another bitter swallow as I place some cash notes for the tab on the counter. _'The brunette. SH.'_

He smiles at his phone, a bit too broadly, a bit too obvious.

I quickly send a second. _'Brunette is the wrong choice. SH.'_

His posture is rigid, suddenly defensive.

_'Wrong choice?'_

'_Obviously._ _Blonde is the correct choice. The rest are wrong.'_

I watch as he reads my text, not bothering to reply as he slips the mobile into his front pocket. He eyes the brunette as he pushes the pint away from him and begins to stand up from the stool and away from the bar.

His dark eyes catch mine and the message is clear: _watch me._

I stand. I cannot abide by how foolish he is being, how completely idiotic.

Approaching swiftly I catch his arm when he's only a few paces from the woman and he flinches, _flinches_ with the fury that surges through him. If we weren't in such a public setting, I am positive he would struggle. Instead, he freezes with a mix between rage and shock.

"Outside. Now." It's low and calm and only for his ears, but my order is clear. I tighten my hold on him, enough to bruise bone.

He's nearly snarling low in his throat and I see the glimpse of betrayal in his sharp gaze. I take a step towards the door, leading him backwards before he complies stiffly, body wound tight like a drum head.

We reach outside, the street oiled with rain and I round him towards the alleyway, managing to lead him around the building and release him, parting my stance for optimum balance for his predictable strike.

He turns at me, and I see the glint of his eyes in the pale streetlight before I see the glint of his blade.

He quick, but he's angry and unthinking. He attempts to grab my side. He tries gripping the slightly baggy, damp cloth of the sweatshirt, and pull me into his scalpel. His aim would be true, right between my ribs. But I side step. I use his momentum against him, as I swing, catching the blade wielding wrist, locking the joints tight, and shouldering him, but the angle is wrong and it's not hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

"I fucking knew it, I fucking—" His breathing is ragged and in his anger, I catch him by the throat and cut him off, giving a final push until he's slammed up against the wall. My knuckles snag on the brick, scratching against the grain.

His chest is heaving but I have him sufficiently pinned. One hand grips his left wrist, still holding onto his blade even as it's slick with sweat, as my left grips his throat, thumb pressing hard against his windpipe. I keep the distance of our bodies close enough; my left leg between his slightly parted ones. He would be unable to land a hard kick. His right hand is naturally weaker, and wraps around my forearm tightly. He isn't positioned for it to have any strength.

It's alarmingly intimate. The pulse in his throat hammers hard like pelting rain against my hand.

"Are you finished?" My bored tone and the fact I am not at all out of breath increases his rage, but he's completely still, seething silently.

"I knew, you were full, of shite." He breathes heavily, and he slacks ever so slightly in my hold, nearing defeat but still holding stubborn.

I sigh and shake my head, but don't loosen my hold an inch. "And how did you come up with that deduction?"

His laugh is harsh, and would sound strangled even without the added pressure around his throat. "You told me you wanted to watch. I think you only wanted to stop me."

"Honestly, John. Isn't it exhausting for you? Being wrong all the time?" His lip nearly curls in a snarl. I continue, keeping my voice low. "I stopped you, because you were wrong."

He thrashes his head once in frustration. "For fuck's sake how was I wrong, there's no –no _wrong_!' He spits out the word as if it's vile. "I've been doing this for-" He stops himself and I tilt my head, curious, before he licks his bottom lip and shakes his head with a sarcastic smile, breaking eye contact. "Fine then, Sherlock. Tell me how I was _wrong_."

"The blonde as I said, was the obvious choice. She—"

"Aren't you going to let me go?" He interrupts and I narrow my eyes down at him. His grip on the blade is loosened; he's balancing it in an almost lazy like motion between his fingers. He swallows hard for emphasis at how hard my hold on him is.

I consider. "No."

"I'm not going to—"

"I said no." I rub my thumb up against the smooth column of his throat. It twitches involuntarily. "I like you like this." I murmur.

His pulse is a hummingbird caught in my first. "Like what? Beat up?"

"In my control."

He grows very still and quiet, slightly shrinking back but his pupils have blown black.

I lean down to him and he flinches, eyes widening. "Don't." He warns.

"Don't what?" I ask with a mock innocent tone, but my bared teeth are all guilt.

He's off balance, and I see the brief flash of shock in his eyes as he suddenly comes to grips with any upper hand he's lost.

I pull away, and continue. "The blonde was the obvious choice because she's recently broken up with her boyfriend. Running mascara and eyeliner indicates tears and recent distress. She'd been drinking, heavily, and sending mass drunk-texts to her soon to be ex and glancing at her iPhone, he hadn't sent a single reply. She was getting increasingly desperate. Her friend, the brunette, had taken her out, probably to show her a good time but ended up flirting with the bartender.

"The bartender fancied her. Body language showed quite a bit. They'll probably leave together tonight after his shift leaving the blonde on her own. If you had left with the brunette, the bartender would have remembered you for making him lose his chance. Nobody was paying attention to the sad blonde on her phone. Given the state of the texts if she had disappeared one could take the leap she was drunk, depressed and suicidal."

John's brow is furrowed, thinking. I pause a beat. "So now do you understand?"

"I understand what you're saying, I'm not a total bloody idiot." He snaps.

"Just a sloppy one." I retort.

He takes immense offense to that, head whipping up and again I'm thankful I have control over him so we don't end up struggling into the rubbish bins.

I tilt my head, studying him. "Do you want to kill me, John?"

His breathing is steady, and as I bear down my vision onto him I wait.

Finally. "No."

I cock an eyebrow. "Forgive me for doubting you, but you did attempt to stick a knife in my side."

He skin is heated and clammy against my palm, he's getting tired and submissive in my grasp. He hesitates before answering. "It wouldn't have hit anything vital." He relaxes a bit more, just a fraction.

I study his face, now warm lines, no longer the blank slate from earlier. I wonder if whatever mood possessed him has left him for now, bringing me back a bit of the John I felt I used to know. Whatever urge he had is slowly retreating back. Fascinating.

"Drop the knife, John."

He does without hesitation. Silver metal slips from his hand onto the pavement with a few jittering clangs. He looks momentarily startled at his own response to my command.

"Tell me why." As I ask, his eyes twitch in confusion. "Tell me why you don't want to kill me. I asked you before, why you killed him. The Canary. You told me because he was there. Well I'm here, John. What makes me different?"

"Because-" He stops. He's hesitating. Uncertain and slightly panicked. I tighten his wrist, both our hands wet with sweat and mist. I'm so close. So close to complete control over him.

"Tell me." I roughen my voice and he inhales sharply through his nose.

"You're my danger." A nearly muffled murmur, almost to himself. He looks down at the scalpel, spackled with mud. "You're my balance. My fulcrum." He pauses. "My vice."

Brilliant.

"I want to watch," and his eyes refocus back to me, alert. "I want to watch you. But you're an idiot." And as I say that, I release his left wrist, which falls limps to his side. I run a possessive hand through his hair, wet locks clinging to my fingers almost like living things. He wants to lean into the touch, but he doesn't.

"The Canary could have been your downfall." I say seriously as I pull my hand away. "The Brunette probably would have. You need to select those who won't be missed. Those who won't arouse suspicion. Who you can't be tied back to. You need perfect victims."

"Sherlock—"

"And I'll find you them. I'll find you the perfect ones, John. And I'll watch." His eyes search mine, and I know what he needs. I lean and rest my forehead against his temple, lips against the corner of his mouth. Rain droplets slip from my bangs and onto his cheek running down his neck. Our breath is warm and humid, intermingling. He's still, so beautiful still in my possession. Trusting and in my control.

"You could be brilliant, John. Let me watch you be brilliant."

"Alright Sherlock." He whispers against me, a brush of lips. "Alright."


End file.
